


Cherry Lips

by withthepilot



Series: Two Sides [1]
Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: Crossdressing, Drag Queen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-30
Updated: 2010-12-30
Packaged: 2017-10-14 05:50:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/146062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withthepilot/pseuds/withthepilot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zach barely remembers why he first went to the club but he knows why he kept going back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cherry Lips

**Author's Note:**

> Part 1 of the Two Sides series.

He can't even remember the reason he first went—birthday party, bachelor party? Something like that. He does recall that he was drinking White Russians and there was a strobe light threatening to give him a seizure. Also a ridiculous amount of glitter all over the tables and chairs, to the point that he had to get everything he wore dry-cleaned, down to his socks.

The birthday girl—okay, yeah, birthday party, then—drunk on one too many cosmos and with a tiara half-propped on her head, kept trying to climb onto her table, but their friends kept pulling her back down. Zach shielded his vision with a flattened palm laid over the top of his glasses, as if the sun was directly above him. He'd paid twenty-five bucks for entry to the show and yet he could barely even see anything with all the flashing lights.

"Need another?" a soft, yet undeniably masculine voice asked. Zach looked from his emptied glass to the finger pointing to it, then up at the face attached. He noticed the eyes first—a clear, deep blue made all the more vibrant by the dark bob with the severe bangs. The lips were so lush and cherry red that if not for the strong jaw, the drag queen holding the tray full of empty glasses could possibly pass for a woman, in the right lighting.

"Yeah," he said, offering up the glass with a nod. "Thanks."

He made sure their fingers touched as the waitress took the glass, and that earned him a smile he wouldn't soon be able to forget, despite all the White Russians.

"Having fun?" she asked, delicately placing the glass on the tray. "You look like you'd rather be anywhere but here."

"Well, how would you propose I remedy that?" Zach asked, propping his head up on curled fingers, glitter from the table likely smearing all over the elbow of his sweater. He blinked and went still when she smeared her thumb in the glitter, then lightly ran it over each of his eyebrows. She stepped back and looked over her handiwork, nodding.

"Now you look ready for a party," she surmised. "Be right back with your refill."

Zach had a passing thought that he probably looked ridiculous and would definitely have to wash his face more than once when he got home. But the sight of her walking away in that cropped denim jacket and short, pink skirt was, admittedly, a lot more interesting than his nighttime beauty regime.

*

The second time, he came alone. She didn't look quite as surprised to see him again as he would have preferred. In fact, she gave him a smile as though she knew it was inevitable.

"White Russian, right?" she asked in that same softened voice from before, licking her lips as she held her tray against one hip.

"Actually, it's Zach." He grinned a little when she laughed, nodding to herself as if she should have known he'd give a sassy reply. Shrugging, he reached up to adjust his glasses and then remembered he'd decided on contacts instead. "Vodka and soda this time. It's my usual."

She licked her plush lips again, flicking a flyaway strand of her wig back, and Zach wondered if her wandering tongue was actual flirtation or a nervous habit. If the latter, she probably had to reapply her lipstick a hundred times over the course of each shift. "New drink, no glasses and a suit and tie," she observed. "You're full of surprises."

"I already surprised myself by deciding to come back." He looked her over deliberately and when she just smirked and started to walk away, he instinctively reached out and grabbed her wrist—not too forceful, just enough to make her take pause. "So, what's yours?"

"Jack and Coke," she replied dryly, removing his hand from her wrist. She smiled as she strolled off, but another drag queen ended up delivering his drink.

He settled for watching her move around the club all night, leaving his name and number on the table with a rather large tip when he left. _For Miss Jack. Or is it Miss Coke?_

*

His phone buzzed on his nightstand a few hours later, just when he was halfway toward sleep. Zach reached out and grabbed it, blinking at the unfamiliar number on the screen with bleary eyes. "Hullo?" he slurred, leaning up on his elbow.

"Oh, god, you're in bed," a strange voice said. It was a man, but there was something familiar about the tone and cadence. Like he'd heard it before, but just a little altered.

"Is that...is that you?"

"Probably, yeah. Listen," he—whatever his name was, Zach was just mentally calling him _Jack_ now—said. "You're cute. Like... _really_ cute. But I don't date patrons, okay? Or sleep with them. It's nothing personal, just a rule of mine."

"Well, maybe I'll stop frequenting your fine establishment," he murmured. "Then what?"

"Yeah, right. Wild horses couldn't keep you away."

"Just tell me your name. Please?"

The man paused. "Tina," he said, his voice a little rougher. Zach thought he could hear him smile. "And this isn't my number, so don't bother saving it or calling back."

"Okay, Tina," he agreed. "Goodnight."

*

He waited two weeks. It was tough, but he managed. He stopped at a payphone around one in the afternoon and dialed the number previously scrawled into his Moleskine notebook in the middle of the night.

A man answered after three rings. "Chris Pine," he said, in an extremely professional voice—an actor-waiting-to-hear-back-on-his-auditions voice.

 _Hollywood_ , Zach thought. He grinned as he hung up, a faint "Hello?" coming from the receiver before the line clicked and went dead.

*

She was sitting on a step behind the club, smoking a cigarette and reaching into her strappy heel to rub the reddened sole of her foot. It was late enough to be the end of her shift and he moved toward her with purpose. The flipped ends of her bob grazed her chin and those disarming blue eyes lifted up to meet his when he stepped closer, shoes scuffing along the gravel on the ground. He gave her a second to discard the cigarette before taking her by the wrist, pulling her to her feet. She gasped—probably for his benefit, but hell, he loved it—and he pressed her back against the bricks of the wall.

"You wanted me to find out," he whispered, close to her mouth, painted so red it could have been bleeding. She laughed, a little breathless, and it felt warm against his cheek. She was a bit taller than him in the heels, but it wasn't anything he couldn't work with. He tilted his head, appraising her. "I'm not a patron anymore."

"That's too bad," she murmured. "You're a good tipper."

He laughed before he kissed her, careful at first, then harder when she pulled him closer, bunching her hand in the fabric of his jacket. Her mouth was soft, soft, so like the woman she portrayed every night to make ends meet, but the muscles under her blouse were firm and unyielding, only giving way to a quiver when he ran his fingertips across them. He ground his stiffening cock against her thigh and she let out a moan that was nowhere near feminine, the back of her head smacking lightly against the wall.

"Wait," she whispered, reaching down past the waistband of her skirt, nearly whimpering as she adjusted, and then Zach felt her cock, straining through the sparkly, flimsy material, hot and heavy already. He reached down and brushed his fingers against the taut elastic of panties halfway down her thighs, then above it, the thick, _long_ length he eagerly palmed with alternating slow and quick strokes. Her big hands gripped his hips and urged him closer, and he looked down at them, dizzied by the heady mix of masculine and feminine markers, enamored with the sexed-up, gender-fucking vision of beauty writhing against him.

He took her wrists and pinned them against the wall with one hand, high over her head, and undid his belt buckle and jeans with the other. She let him take control and he marveled at the way her mascara-thick lashes fluttered with the first slide of their cocks, the way those blue doe eyes disappeared beneath the web and then revealed themselves again, darkened with need. She wrapped a leg around his hips, her heel digging into the back of his thigh, and crushed their mouths together, panting between kisses; he could feel her lipstick smearing over his skin, marking him. Zach growled, thrusting harder against her, taking them both in hand and stroking that beautiful cock of hers to full hardness, dabbing his thumb against the leaking slit until she bucked and cried out. He wanted to bite, to run the edges of his teeth over the baby-smooth skin of her jaw, likely roughened with stubble every morning. And god, he wanted _that_ , too. He wanted Tina, wanted Chris, wanted everything that was hidden in the shuddering body he currently controlled.

She gasped Zach's name against his cheekbone when she was about to come and he said something vaguely romantic and more than a little dirty as he teased under the crown of her shaft. He angled their cocks so she came on his shirt and not her own top, and he shivered when her false lashes drooped; they tickled the side of his nose, setting off a tidal wave of heat in his belly, his hips jerking, cock twitching with swift, hot release. He moaned lowly in the afterglow, messy and sweaty, and when he let her go, she cupped his face in her strong but elegant hands.

"Thanks," she murmured, kissing him again. "That's a bitch to clean."

*

Tina walked back into the club after a few more minutes of lazy kissing, and Zach was nearly dozing off on the step when Chris emerged about thirty minutes later, impressive biceps flexing as he pulled a grey cardigan on over a tight-fitting T-shirt. Zach took in the low-slung jeans, the beat-up Converse and, of course, the cocky, utterly masculine grin.

"Thanks for waiting," he said, slinging his bag over his shoulder. "Hope you're not disappointed. I know the wig brings out my bone structure."

Zach rose to his feet, reminding himself to stop openly gaping at the stunning young man. There was still a bit of glitter lingering on his features and he yearned to reach out and gently rub it off. "I'll learn to live with it," he said. Chris laughed.

They walked down the alley to the sidewalk and Zach hailed for a cab. Chris gave him a quick smile as one pulled up and he opened the door.

"I'm Chris, by the way," he said, climbing into the car. Zach smirked and followed suit.

 _Chris_ , he dazedly thinks later on, when he asks himself just why he ventured into that club in the first place—the birthday party a faded memory now, as only the golden, glistening body of this gorgeous man remains, stretched across his sheets and gasping _fuck_ and _yes_ beneath him.


End file.
